


You Can't Go Back

by StealthKaiju



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan (2003)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Character Study, Dark, F/M, Ficlet, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Character Death, author in an angsty mood and using this to de-stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25205917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealthKaiju/pseuds/StealthKaiju
Summary: "All children, except one, grow up" J.M. BarrieWendy Darling is not a child. She does not have a child's soul.
Relationships: Wendy Darling/James Hook
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	You Can't Go Back

The last time Wendy Darling had seen Peter Pan, Queen Victoria had still been on the throne. Now he was sitting at the foot of her bed, muttering, trying to tie his shadow onto his toes (still useless with a needle and thread then).

‘You got old,’ he said, voice petulant and accusatory. It was true – when he had seen her, she was young, barely a few years older than he appeared to be. Now, nearly twenty years on, she looked old enough to be his mother (but not sweet enough to be a mother, not kind enough).

‘I did,’ she replies, sitting up in bed, and lighting the candle. It cast a warm orange glow that did nothing to hide the shabbiness of the room she was renting. ‘Why are you here Peter? Why now?’

Peter shrugged, then crowed as he managed to get the shadow to stick to his feet. ‘Felt like it. So I came.’ He stood up, puffing up his small child’s chest. ‘Where are the others?’ A small frown formed between two thin eyebrows. ‘There were others, weren’t there?’

Wendy thought of John and Michael, both lovely boys and wonderful young men, fiercely intelligent and full of life. In a field somewhere in France, scattered bones picked by crows, under mud and metal. ‘Gone,’ she replied.

Peter was already wandering around the room, attention span shorter than the strike of a match. ‘And what do you do now, now that you’re a _grown-up_?', spitting out the last word as one would spit out poison.

‘I teach. Literature and philosophy.’

‘Hmm,’ Peter replied. ‘I don’t think that’s as fun as telling stories.’

Wendy closed her eyes. ‘Maybe not. But I live here, not Neverland.’

Peter stood with his hands on his hips. ‘But why are you not in Neverland?’ He sneered, showing two rows of pearly white milk teeth. ‘It only takes fairy dust and happy thoughts to fly.’

Wendy stared at him. She thought of the nights she had waited by an open window, wanting him to come again. She thought of what little they had in common – this boy, this perpetual child, who had never known grief. Would never know loneliness. Would never know despair.

‘I have no happy thoughts,’ Wendy said, blowing out the candle, and lying back down, shutting her eyes again.

*

The students were leaving the amphitheatre, and she was gathering up her notes, putting them back in her sensible bag. She was distracted, and did not notice the man standing there until he coughed, a huff of air that sounded amused and mocking.

She looked up into the woad-blue eyes of Captain James Hook. Same meticulously styled moustache and beard, and long, cavalier tresses. His right sleeve was pinned neatly over what would have been empty space, and though his black coat was sensible and plain, he still looked as if he had just stepped off the Jolly Roger – the essence of him could not be contained, like trying to hold mist in your hands.

Wendy was in no mood for social niceties. ‘I thought the crocodile got you.’

Hook smiled. ‘There is no Neverland without a Captain Hook,’ he replied, bowing his head down. The smile turned feral, sharp teeth, tip of blood-red tongue. ‘At least, not for you.’

‘And why does that matter?’

‘Because I am here to take you back.’

Wendy stood and moved to stand in front of him. Once he towered over her, but now they were the same height. ‘I’m not darning socks and keeping things neat and tidy for your crew, not like when I was a little girl,’ she told him, her voice flinty and hard. ‘I am not taking care of you all.’

‘If we wanted a mother Wendy, we would not want you.’

She sighed, and rested her hand on the lapel of his jacket (scandalous behaviour, but then she was already talking to a pirate). ‘And what would _you_ want me for James?’ she asked, revelling in the slight shudder that went through him.

‘Your stories,’ he whispered. ‘It was always your stories.’

Wendy kissed him. There was no softness in her kiss (she had none), but there was passion and there was greed, a selfishness and self-interest. She wove a hand into his hair, pulling almost roughly, and the other held him tightly around his waist. The kiss ended, and she drew back a little to look at him, seeing his eyes shine with wonder and a touch of fear. Perfect.

Wendy Darling’s notes and sensible bag were left abandoned on the table, to be found later by the next teacher, who was most put out that he had to tidy them out of the way before he could use the table himself.

Captain Hook and Red-handed Jill had already left the building.


End file.
